What am I?
by Shadowz
Summary: In the Virginia Colony, 1609, the dying human prostitue who would become the legendary vampire Darla reflects on her life.


A/N: Having seen the season 2 episode 'Darla' for the first time last night, I suddenly came up with this little thing here. So please read and review, but be nice! This is my first Angel fic.  
  
Disclaimer: Well, what's the point in suing me? I don't exactly have much to offer (a pile of useless homework and a stripey sock), and as I'm only borrowing these concepts, please be nice!  
  
Dedication: My friends Silvermoon, Rainbow Dreamer and Morpeth, as well as everyone who reviewed Second Chance. You guys rock!  
  
Setting: Virginia Colony, 1609. The human who would become Darla is in the last days of her current existence...  
  
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What am I?  
  
I barely remember anything sometimes. Sometimes, when the fever grows stronger, I don't know one moment from the next. When it subsides a little, I remember everything.  
  
What was I?  
  
Born as nothing, the bastard of a lowly peasant woman and (so she told me) a merchant bored with his wife. He used my mother shamelessly, just as I allow the men to use me, and shunned her when he found that she was with child. His child.  
  
I grew up followed by the whispers of my fellow villagers. Mothers warned their children distance from me. People crossed the road as I neared them. They scorned me, spurned me, spat at me. It was as if illegitimacy was a terrible plague they feared I could infect them with. I long ago lost count of how many different places we moved to, hoping against the inevitable that no one would discover me status of birth.  
  
In 1607, two years ago, my mother seized the chance to take me to the New World of America. We were accepted by the Puritans and so travelled among some of the first emigrants on a ship headed for a new life. My mother, however, died of a mystery illness on the way, and so I was left alone in the world, just a month or so shy of my sixteenth birthday. At least she was finally rid of me; her sin, her shame- for that was what she called me.  
  
Work was hard when we landed here. Soon, the constant hunger and cold and lack of basic needs grew too much for me, and I solved my problems in the only way possible. I sold myself.  
  
I hated it at first, was ashamed of what I was. But I soon realised that it was the only thing I could have done, and that I shouldn't berate myself for something I couldn't help. And so the years turned, and now here I am.   
  
Lyinghere in a strange bed, being sucked by the leeches of a surgeon.  
  
What is my name?  
  
I can hardly remember the name I was given by my mother at birth. I have so many others though. I remember those. The ones the righteous citizens use to my face and behind my back.   
  
Trollop. Whore. Hussey. Painted Jezebel. The list goes on and on. I always ignore them. They're no better yet no worse than what I got called back when I lived in England.  
  
So when they sneer at me, I turn and sneer right back. I'm not humiliated by something I was forced into. If it mattered that much- if I mattered that much- they'd help me. Them or somebody else, God even.  
  
But nobody has and nobody will.  
  
What will I be?  
  
Dead. I know that much. This illness is crumbling me from the inside out. I can feel my body decaying, dying. I can feel the heaviness of the disease weighing on the burden of my soul.  
  
For that's what I see my soul as: a burden. A load that I desperately want to be rid of so that I can escape my current miserable existence. No good has ever come of having it, only pain and misfortune.   
  
The nuns are standing beside my bed, uttering prayers for my soul. If I had the strength to do so, I would tell them what a futile attempt it is. My soul needed saving so long ago, when nobody wanted to know. And now I don't either. I want to be rid of it for good.  
  
Where will I be?  
  
Far away from here, that's all I know. I'd willingly go anywhere to be away from this cursed place. I'd even follow Satan himself to the very murkiest depths of hell if it meant being away from here.  
  
I know I'd not get to Heaven, if I was sure such a place existed. God doesn't want whores like me. I really don't care. There are others who would want me, I'm sure of it.  
  
What do I want?  
  
To die. To be free of my soul. To get away from here. To have another chance in a different place, with a different name, in a different time.  
  
So many things, so many impossible wishes. I sound like a child pleading for things I want so badly I can't see the ridiculousness of it all. Honestly, I'd laugh if I had the strength.  
  
So what am I?  
  
A washed-up hussy dying of some horrible infirmity as people try to save the life and soul she doesn't want? Or something else? Anything else? Anything...more?  
  
I don't know. I don't know anything any more, and sometimes, I don't care.  
  
If somebody would have me, I'd go with them in any sense. I need to belong.  
  
What am I?  
  
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Well, it wasn't the longest thing I've ever written by any means, but I think it came out OK. I certainly enjoyed writing it, and hope you enjoyed reading it! Darla certainly is an interesting character, to read about, write about or watch. Whatever you thought, please click on the pretty button below and review. Thank you very much. 


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